Open Letters

It’s an old adage, or maybe just a thing people say sometimes, or maybe something I’ve heard someone say once, that when one part of your life is going really well, another part will start to go south. It’s the unfair balance of life on Earth. Your work life starts improving, your home life suffers. Your love life is great, and your personal growth is wonderful, but you get into a fight with a coworker, or get a bad review from your boss.

Or maybe it all goes to shit at the same time. 

In these moments, when we’re down and alone with no outside sources to lean on for support, we have no other choice but to look to ourselves. We have nothing, which gives us an opportunity to rebuild, to regain our strength, and to remember our foundations. There’s power in struggling. We start by looking inward, remembering who we are at our cores, and acknowledging the feelings we have inside. In this cold season of my life, I’ve had to look inside, at my core.

And after some self-reflection, I've realized who I truly am at my very core, is a crabby, bitter bitch. 

I decided to indulge myself in a bad mood, and air out some of my grievances. 

Open Letters

Dear Hulu,

I’ve been a Hulu Plus user for about 5 years now. We’re great together, you and I. But we need to address the elephant in the room: Your commercials suck. Don’t get me wrong, I knew the deal when I signed up. Hulu has the new content, but it comes with commercial breaks. I’m not so much upset that I have to watch commercials in general, my problem is with the particular ads you feature… they SUCK. It’s not just that they suck. It’s that they suck so much, that every 10 minutes for 90 second increments, I lose the will to live. 

I’d rather die than once more sit through that Subway commercial, with the couple that marks all their major life events using the weekly sub special menu. I hate that couple. Who are we kidding here? Subway is okay, but it’s not that good. We’ve already heard about one guy who ate at subway every day. We all remember those creepy cardboard cutouts of Jared, smiling as he shows off how big his pants are after losing 200 lbs. Unfortunately for Subway, Jared wanted to show off what was inside of those big ass pants to underage girls. That doesn’t make me want a sandwich. Neither does this couple. I hope that they both get ebola and die, and that their daughter Teri (born on Chicken Teriyaki day, gag) gets a chance at a normal life.

Although the crazy Subway couple isn’t as bad as the “Real Diamond” ad, where we see commitment-phobic hipster millennials doing various extreme outdoors activities, voiced over by vague sentiments about their romantic relationships. Yes, nothing screams romance quite like a white guy with dreadlocks and his ethnically ambiguous girlfriend looking sexy-bored surrounded by beautiful landscapes. Are we really supposed to believe that a bunch of self-righteous baristas and amateur DJ’s can afford to give each other diamonds? I could be wrong though. Maybe the trust-fund bohemians really do have all the diamond buying power these days. Either way, someone needs to tell these kids that if they’re so unsure about their future in a relationship, they shouldn’t be spending money on engagement rings. Take off your giant headphones, and try looking up Dave Ramsey, and no, that’s not an artist you heard at Coachella. 

Hulu, I know you don’t write these ads, but you should expect more from them. Raise your standards! Have some dignity! Please do what you can to save this relationship. $8 a month still means something to me, does it to you?

Love,

Libby

Dear Guy Who Parks His Escalade In Front of the Walkway to My Apartment Building,

First: 2004 called, Li’l Jon wants his car back. 

Second: The fact that you chose owning an outdated luxury vehicle over living in a decent apartment complex obviously means that you’re a man of class and intellect, capable of making wise decisions. So I expect you to be reasonable and heed my request: please don’t park your stupid car in front of the steps to our building anymore. That’s not a parking space. It is inconvenient to walk around, as you have to walk through mud on one side, or risk being attacked by a raccoon hiding in the dumpster on the other side. 

Consider this your first warning. If you do not park your car in a space like everyone else, I will be forced to take further action. There are some eggs about to go bad in my refrigerator, so I would take this warning seriously if I were you.

Sincerely,

A Neighbor

Dear People Moving to Nashville,

Don’t. Don’t do it. Unless you want to start paying my rent, GTFO. I get it, this city is wonderful. But the more people that live here, the worse everything gets. You can’t even enjoy the sights because everywhere you look, there’s PEOPLE. People, riding around in their out-of-state cars, not knowing where the hell they’re going, filling the beautiful Nashville air with their dumb touristy farts, making everything more expensive. 

Yes, I did move here from a different state 8 years ago, but I don’t see how that’s relevant. This is about how the rest of YOU make ME feel. And how I feel is PISSED OFF. In the last 5 years, there is maybe one person I’m glad moved here. The rest of you need to leave. Get out of my parking spaces at Radnor Lake, Green Hills Mall (which admittedly has always been crowded. Not your fault, but still infuriating and I need someone to blame), or 12th South. Stop ruining the places I like to go. 

Sincerely,

Libby

Dear Rae Sremmund Schremmend Schkrimmurd(??),

Okay, what the hell is that name? Is that your given birth name? It’s like instead of having a last name, you just had a stroke.

I've now consulted Google - apparently “Rae Sremmurd” is a rap duo, consisting of two young men, neither of which are named Rae Sremmurd. It’s making my head hurt. But that’s not my problem with you two:

I’ve had Black Beatles stuck in my head for SEVEN. DAYS. I can’t understand half the things either of you are saying though, so I’ve just been repeating the first two lines over and over. 

“That girl is a real crowd pleaser,

Small world all her friends know of me”

Who is this girl? You say a few times that she’s a crowd pleaser, and from what I can tell, you don’t mention her any other time. Is she the one you bought flowers for at the beginning? You two only seem sad about this for a short period of time, as you quickly remind us that you have so much money that you can literally throw it around. 

Are you the "young bull living like an old geezer?" How? How does any part of your lifestyle equate to being an old geezer? Was featuring Gucci Mane done intentionally as a foil to the two of you? Opposite of you, he is an old geezer living like a young bull, which is really sad. His narrative throws off the celebratory tone of the rest of the song. The story line is inconsistent and hard to follow. Catchy song though. 2 1/2 stars.

Please consider the above questions and advise. I look forward to hearing from you.

Thanks,

Libby

Dear Proper Bagel,

I love Nashville. I never had a hometown growing up, so I’ve made Nashville my home. I did spend the majority of my youth in St. Louis, so since moving here, there were some food genres that I’ve missed. I hadn’t found a place that made a good bagel. So you can imagine my excitement when I saw a bagel shop had opened, boasting “NY Style Bagels.” I thought my dreams had come true, and that enough Jewish people had moved to Nashville that the demand for real bagels had risen, and we would finally get a business that knew how to do bagels “Properly.”

I went in, expecting to see what I’d seen at every legitimate bagel shop I’d ever been to: a loud old man, with thick furry eyebrows impatiently asking for my order, or just simply shouting “NEXT!” He would somehow manage to be both warm and intimidating. I would tell him my order, he would make it, and he would shout “HAVE A NICE DAY” as I walked out the door, or nothing at all because he was busy. 

What I saw instead was a girl my age, with a remarkably bad haircut, a double pierced philtrum, and most likely a tumblr account as boring and lifeless as her personality. 

She mumbled, mumbled, “howcanihelpyou.” 

I ordered. “Can I get a Lox Bagel Sandwich, everything bagel, dill cream cheese, with a fried egg, please?"
She finally made eye contact, and looked at me as though I had severely oppressed her. I thought back over what I’d said, wondering if it was something ignorant or "problematic." Maybe she could tell by looking at me that I sometimes (mostly) put aluminum soda cans in the trash instead of recycling them. 

She let out a long sigh, and closed her eyes, as though she had reached her breaking point, and could no longer even. “We would really recommend scrambled eggs with that sandwich.”

“Ok, fine. Scrambled eggs then.”

I pay, way more than I should for a bagel, but I figure this place is snooty. Maybe they get their lox from somewhere fancy. My food comes out. My bagel is wrong. My cream cheese is wrong. My friends’ orders are also wrong. The food is good, but it’s always wrong in some way. It’s always partially not what you ordered, which is so damn annoying. 

Notice I said, “always,” indicating that I have indeed been back to your establishment. I said the food was good, and I have needs. Important bagel-related needs. If you’re going to have a bunch of lazy assholes who know nothing about food working behind the counter, at least get the order right. Either get it completely wrong, or get it completely right. Don’t settle for almost right. And don’t make your customers feel like terrible people for wanting a fried egg on their sandwich. And would it kill you to hire ONE hairy old guy?

Sincerely,

Libby

Dear Girls Who Wear Those Giant Hats,

Why? Why are you wearing that giant hat? Are you going to the beach? Are you always going to the beach? It’s 8PM, and we’re inside a theatre in the middle of Tennessee. Are you going to the beach after this? 

Are you afraid of the sun? If you get too much direct sunlight, will you wilt like delicate flower?

Are you an alien? Is the hat actually a UFO, and you’re waiting for people to climb aboard so you can take them to your home planet? Is your home planet just a giant Anthropologie? Are you on Earth to capture human test subjects to try out artisanal home-blown glass probes? Should we expect them on the shelves for Spring 2017? Will the retail price be $98, like everything else in Anthropologie?

Please respond to these inquiries with haste, as I need to know whether or not to prepare my body for probing.

Best,

Libby

Well, I certainly feel better. Do you? Don’t answer that, I don’t actually care.

Reptiloid Seeks Human Female for Genuine Friendship

I’ve never really been a “Girl’s Girl.” I enjoy watching “Girl’s Girls” on TV, specifically on Bravo while they’re fighting and throwing wine at each other. Some aspects of me could be considered girly. But as far as “Girl’s Girl” goes, I miss the mark. I’m not a tomboy either. I have guy friends, and like baseball and beer. But I was never good at sports, or other activities that would put me in the “blue” category.

Where does that leave me? I’m neither pink nor blue. I feel like I’m probably too old to be stuck in this dilemma. The categories don’t end after adolescence, though. The pressure to be pink or blue meets you at every age. I’m a woman, but not a very feminine woman, but I’m not a manly woman either. Maybe I’m a Lizard Woman. I’m cold blooded and hell-bent on world domination. My skin is pretty scaly. All signs point to Reptilian. Or eczema. 

A Socially Acceptable Woman on the right, me on the left.

Truthfully, Femininity has always felt like a club I couldn’t get into. A club with a lot of requirements:

• Have perfect hair, that looks like you worked really hard to get it that way, or like you didn’t try at all. Nothing in between. Same goes for nails, skin, home decor.
• Look beautiful in perfectly done makeup. But not too much! Also, look beautiful with no makeup at all.
• Be stylish. Either put together, or not. Again, no in between. And no visible effort.
• Look great in pictures. Be Instagram perfect at all times.
• Smile all the time, or never. Always have big mauvey-brown matte lips, and straight white teeth.
• Be extremely sexual, or not sexual at all. Want it but don’t ask for it.
• Be hairless in all places EXCEPT your scalp and your brow bone. On these places you need to grow a lot of hair and it needs to be sculpted a certain way.
• Or, be hairy in all places to protest society because HASHTAG FEMINISM
• Be:
• Hot & Bored
• Hot & Maniacally Happy
• Hot & Angry (only if you have piercings, tattoos, and only wear black)
• If you can’t be hot, you have to be smart or funny. But just know that stupid/unfunny women who are hotter than you will always get the guys.

• Have:
• Big boobs, tiny waist
• No boobs, big ass, tiny waist
• Big boobs, big ass, tiny waist
• Be a stick
• Be “thick,” but only in approved areas
• (ass, boobs, thighs. Unapproved thick places: face, arms, stomach, ankles, wrists)
• Be “approachable”
• You’ll never get a clear definition explaining what this means exactly
• Or be an asshole, because HASHTAG FEMINISM
• Like everything pumpkin scented/flavored
• Own only shoes that cost > $100, or that are uncomfortable. Know how to walk in heels.
• Be fiercely a motivated working-girl or be married by 23. If you aren’t fiercely motivated in your career, be a fiercely devoted mother. Double Unicorn Points if you can be both, or at least appear to be both. If you can’t appear to be both, pick a side and rage against the other.
• Or, be vocally against having children, because HASHTAG FEMINISM (can we all just admit that we don’t actually know what Feminism means, and we’re just making shit up?)

The world will only accept a woman if she’s 2 dimensional.

Why would we continue to hold ourselves to these standards? If you paid millions of dollars or sacrificed a virgin, and you somehow possess all of these qualities, that doesn’t make you a better woman. If you have one of these qualities it doesn’t make you a better woman. Because there’s no such thing as a better woman. If you have a vagina and identify as a woman, that is the only thing that makes a woman a woman. Or it should be.

I have a complicated and contentious relationship with women. I wish I had more girl friends. I do and I don’t. The bitter part of me hates women. I see pictures of sororities, 45 girls all posed the same, smiling cheesy smiles with dead eyes, and I laugh at them, like I'm so much better than they are. “Sisterhood,” I say with jealousy disguised as contempt. Sisterhood seems like such a good idea in theory: a group of loving and supportive women. Iron sharpening iron. Female friendships have not looked like this in my story.

Men will hurt you, women will torture you. A boy didn’t gather a bunch of people and pull my pants down while I was going across monkey bars. A group of boys didn’t lock me in a closet at a sleepover and leave me in there all night (there ended up being a big bag of chips in the closet, so it wasn’t all bad). A group of boys didn’t call my house, over and over, yelling in unison that they hate me, and that I’m weird, and that no one likes me. Girls did all of those things.

Men don’t ask you about your day when they don’t actually care. Women do. I’m not innocent either, I’ve done my share of tormenting. It’s not our fault though. Society made us this way. Hurt people hurt people. We all have this feeling we can’t shake, that we aren’t enough. A lot more of us relate to Janis Ian than to Regina George. Rather than bond over that and help each other, we become Beautiful Ruthless Murder Machines, hearts as black as our mascara.

So what’s the solution? How can we fix this? I’m really asking, because I have no idea, and as fellow lizard-person Kylie Jenner says, “I’m over it.”

If I had to come up with a way to solve this issue, we’d all be royally screwed. But if I had to, I’d say it has to start with leaning into vulnerability, and owning imperfection. Maybe once we can live honestly in our own struggle, we can recognize the struggle in others, and empathize.

Maybe liking tacos and Gilmore Girls doesn’t mean you’re basic. Or sleeping with a lot of guys and not wanting children doesn’t mean you’re a slut. Or writing song lyrics all over your shoes and being able to burp the alphabet doesn’t mean you’re a weirdo. Maybe it does. Maybe it doesn’t matter. Maybe we’re all just humans with vaginas, and our differences keep things interesting.

My point is, we should enjoy each other’s company while we still can, before our Lizard Overlord Kim Kardashian leads us to our fiery demise.

"It Was Fun at First"

When I was little, like most kids, I made decisions based on whatever felt good in the moment. No concern for consequences, or the future; toeing the line between bravery and stupidity. I still sometimes make decisions that way, with a childish impulsivity. If something smells good, or is sparkly, or is so weird I can't stop looking at it, then I buy it. Even if I only have $16 to my name, and it cost $15, I buy it. I have to. If I walk through the breakroom at work, and there’s a chocolate cake on the counter, my diabetes becomes irrelevant. That cake is going in my mouth, I’ll worry about blood sugar when I’m dead. I have to. I find it really hard to avoid making dirty jokes when given the opportunity, regardless of who I’m speaking to. Sometimes the setup for innuendo is too delicious to turn down, so I say whatever filth is on my mind. I have to. I don't know why. Some might attribute it to my ADD. Some may link it to a deep seeded psychological imbalance. I may never know, and frankly I don't really care.  For the most part, those decisions don't make a lot of waves. But when I was a kid, the choices I made were riskier and dumber.

Once, we were at a barbecue, or some party at a friend of my mother and stepfather's. For whatever reason, I started running around with my eyes closed. Full speed, wild, into complete darkness. I imagine the exhilaration I must have felt, adrenaline blasting through my tiny veins. No idea what was infront of me, but charging fearlessly forward. Wind blowing my curly bangs off my forehead. Drunk with bliss and freedom. With no limits, that I could see anyway, I could run as fast as I wanted. I could do anything! Nothing could stop me. I was born to run. And then...BAM.

Now, it wasn’t these people’s fault. Afterall, how would they know a crazy little girl was going to run around with her eyes closed? Why would anyone with a functioning brain do that? In their yard, they had a wooden shed. And I, with all the force that my small body could muster, hit it face first. I laid on the ground and opened my eyes. The wind had been knocked out of me. I couldn’t breathe. The sharp end to my joy ride tasted just as bitter as the blood in my mouth. When I stopped crying, I told my mother, “It was fun at first.”

On that day, a pessimist was born.

Unfortunately, it wasn’t the first time I’d experienced hurt and shame in my short life. It’s the first memory I have of being physically (and literally) blindsided. I learned something very important when I was child. A very grim lesson, too grown up for me to handle: life is scary and disappointing. Fast forward two years and 2,000 miles west of the wooden shed, to a screaming 8-year-old, me, running away from my family at Disneyland. What hellish terror was I running from? The Disneyland Railroad. Yes, the train that runs 15 miles an hour around the perimeter of the park. Why was I afraid? Because there was another train-themed ride in the park, a scary rollercoaster called Big Thunder Mountain Railroad. I was convinced my family was tricking me into riding the scary rollercoaster. My ability to trust anyone had been lost already, and I knew for a FACT that life was scary and disappointing. So why would this seemingly non-threatening train be any different?

That remained my mentality throughout adolescence and into adulthood. I would go through occasional seasons of optimism, but pessimism would always prevail. It’s like my pessimism has been keeping my optimism hostage. Or my hope and fear are in an unhealthy codependent relationship.

Hope: “We should at least try! Maybe something good might happen!”

Fear: “You shut your damn mouth, Hope. Remember the wooden shed?”

Hope: *sighs heavily* “Yeah, okay.”

(If anyone is curious, I imagine Fear is some gruff old redneck in overalls with a cigarette hanging out of his mouth, holding a rifle at all times. Hope is his starry eyed daughter who just wants to get out and see the Big City.)

Any good feeling I have is accompanied by panic, because I’m just waiting for something to go wrong. As I’ve continued to live and the disappointment has piled on, it’s gotten to the point where I can hardly enjoy anything anymore. And it makes no sense.

I’m going to switch narratives for a minute and address myself directly here (because my sanity is no longer in tact):

Imagine going to see a movie, and deciding before it even starts that one of the characters is going to die. Now that’s all you can think about the entire movie. Every scene, you try to figure out which character is going to die, and how. You miss the storyline, you miss dialogue. You miss the beautiful cinematography. You miss everything. And for what? Because you were certain someone was going to die. After Bambi, you know to never trust any movie ever again, and you know that only the important characters die and they only die when everything seems to be going perfectly. So you would rather prepare yourself for that moment than engage in the story. Sometimes the characters do actually die. Where does that land you? You were right! So what? What if you get to the end of a movie and none of the characters have died? You were wrong, and you missed the entire movie. And then you have to act like you know what people are talking about after it wins an Oscar for best picture. THIS IS A WASTE OF YOUR TIME.

My mind is maddening, and heart breaking. I don’t want to live in constant anxiety, impatiently asking “where are we going,” and “are we there yet?” I want to be able to enjoy things recklessly.

That’s why I hope that I never lose my childish impulsivity. Twisted as it may be, I see it as a gift. It will continue to lead me to great consequences and pain, but also maybe to greater joy.

Fear opens his eyes to see Hope standing over him holding his rifle.

“What the hell you thank yer doin’?”

“I’m gettin’ the hell outta here. I got the whole world to see, and I’m goin’ with or without you.”

“You won’t survive out there.”

“I won’t survive in here! You can either come with me, or stay here in this shithole and rot. I don’t give a damn.”

Hope turns around, kicks the door down, and leaves. Fear reluctantly follows.

• A small sample from “My Weird Brain as a Shitty Lifetime Movie” by Elizabeth Genz

My Happy Place

I step out onto the porch of a cabin surrounded by mountains, tucked away in the woods. 

It's early morning; dawn. The sun is just waking up to touch the world, shining dim light through the trees and the fog. It's autumn. The air is crisp, the colors are majestic: lush green and purple set ablaze with orange and red. 

I can see my breath float into the sky. I'm wrapped in a soft old quilt, my hands kept warm by a mug of hot coffee. I breathe in the rich aroma of roasted beans, of pine needles and bark still wet from rain.  My ears are filled with a symphony of wind whispering through dry leaves and birds whistling to one another.

Underneath my quilt, silk pajamas hug my skin, curves released from the imprisonment of Victoria’s Secret. Toes are cozy in fur-lined slippers, hair curly and wild, fresh face clean of paint. Nothing pinched in, nothing pushed up, nothing pinned down. 

Free to be exactly who I am, where I am, as I am. 

Wholly imperfect. 

Out here, it’s just me, the land, and God. And depending on my mood, perhaps a hunky lumberjack snoring inside; his dog patiently laying at his feet. 

I sip my coffee in silence and absorb the serenity. The weight of the world dissolves. Today’s only plan is to get lost on a winding trail, or in the yellow pages of a book. Not even my most unrelenting troubles can find me out here. 

In this moment, time is still. My heart is full. My mind is at rest. As I reach the bottom of the mug, I take a deep breath of cool air, and exhale. I’m grateful to be alive. 

I go back inside to make the lumberjack and me a stack of chocolate chip pancakes.

photo

photo

This is a place I created in my imagination to go when I get stressed out. You're welcome to use it, I just ask that you put everything back where you found it. And don't touch the lumberjack. He's not even actually mine, it's a weird part of the contract with the cabin rental company. He just occasionally comes with the cabin depending on his availability with work and if you're willing to pay extra. I think technically he belongs to Dolly Parton. 

Girlfriend Cover Letter/Resume

 Libby Genz

onewayticketospinsterhood@foreveralone.com

(PER APPLICANT'S REQUEST, PHONE NUMBER AND ADDRESS HAVE BEEN REDACTED SO YOU CAN'T CONTACT HER IN CASE YOU TURN OUT TO BE A RAPIST OR KILLER)

To whom it may concern:

I am writing to apply for the open position of your girlfriend. I feel as though my experience being a girlfriend/last resort date option/female-companion-with-no-labels makes me uniquely qualified for this position. When you take into account my bizarre yet captivating personality, extravagant sedentary lifestyle, and odd sense of humor, you will find that I am a strong candidate and have a lot to contribute to this potential partnership.

You may have noticed me quietly observing you for the past few weeks. I know this is off-putting, however, do not be alarmed. I take romantic partnerships seriously, and require a great amount of time to decide whether or not it will be a good fit before applying. I believe it to be a crucial process in order to achieve happiness for both parties. I prefer to do this quietly, from a distance. While initially confusing, awkward, and perhaps terrifying in periods lasting longer than a month, this approach has proven to be extremely successful (assuming the other party is able to look past the weirdness and is willing to move forward, which only happens about 5% of the time). If you are receiving this application, that means I have determined that you possess the qualities I deem make an exceptional romantic partner: a sense of humor, a friendly demeanor, no apparent chemical dependencies, and a beard, just to name a few. I appreciate your facial aesthetic as well as your fart jokes. All these characteristics suggest that you are an ideal boyfriend.

Indeed, with your hot face and adorable butt, you function wonderfully as an individual. However, I think I have a lot to offer you in the position as your girlfriend. The time I spent in the restaurant industry helped me develop a deep appreciation of efficiency and speed. I will not make you wait on me to get ready (so long as I am given a 2 hour notice of our going out, and a general understanding of the atmosphere so I can dress appropriately). I will not habitually make you ask me "what's wrong" a thousand times, or make you guess and then make you listen to me cry about it for an hour. Instead, I find it much more efficient to shove down and conceal a large number of grievances, and air them all at one time, loudly and incoherently, when you are least expecting it. Saves time and keeps things interesting! I also had professional chef training during this season of my life, so I would be more than happy to make you a delicious home-cooked meal.* I love comedy, and will do my best to make you laugh whenever possible. I see this as an act of love and service, and not as one ex-boyfriend put it, "annoying," and indicative of a "desperate need of approval." My experience in customer service and crippling desire to please people has made me a good listener. I would love nothing more than to pour you a double bourbon and let you vent after a hard day, offering my advice when necessary (but not right now, because I'm watching the Real Housewives of Beverly Hills. Yes, I know it's a rerun, but it's a good episode. Brandi's dog goes missing, and all the wives band together to make 20 flyers and yell the dog's name down one street for five minutes. It's just not a good time. Later won't be good either, I have to take a shower. And then I'll be in bed. Maybe next weekend, though). 

You may notice from looking at my resume, that I have not held a "girlfriend" position since 2009. That does not necessarily mean there is anything wrong with me, according to many reputable sources (my mother, my grandmother, my therapist). Nobody is perfect. No one. Not even you. If we're honest, all of us are a little "crazy" and "emotionally unstable" and have a tendency to binge eat Cheetos while watching themselves cry in a mirror. Right? HAHAHAHAHAHA JK moving on. I truly believe (or at least tell myself constantly so I don't get too depressed) that this time as a single woman has taught me a lot about myself. It has been a very beneficial growth experience for me; I would not change it for anything. In fact, these past seven years have sped by me. And now, hundreds of pizzas, countless glasses of wine, and 30 pounds later, I find myself wishing I had someone I could watch Making A Murderer with while we share commentary and eat hot wings. This is hopefully where you come in. 

Thank you very much for your consideration, and your time. Attached you will find my resume, as well as the customary check box election sheet for your convenience. I very much look forward to hearing from you. 

Regards,

Sir Dr. Elizabeth (Libby) Genz, PHD, DDS, MD, Esq., LLC

Professional Girlfriend & Part-time Dog Sitter

*Please don't ask me to cook for you. Please. I hate cooking, and I'm not very good at it. Do the right thing.

--------------------

Objective

To get assistance killing scary spiders and opening jars, to acquire a reliable Netflix & Pizza companion, and to secure a plus one to take with me to friends' weddings, by obtaining the position as your girlfriend. 

Education 

Years of watching my friends' failed relationships

• Developed a deeper sense of what it means to be "committed" and "not a felon"
• Lead to my advocacy of and passion for Third-Wheel Awareness, a serious social issue facing single people around the world

Disney Movies

• Provided realistic and healthy expectations towards romance and relationships, and men and women's roles in each. 
• Established an expertise in what makes men/foxes/lions "handsome," a rigid checklist I still use to this day

Skills

• Can easily watch TV for hours on end, losing all track of time 
• Possess a clear and thorough understanding of Personal Space and the importance of Alone Time. Expect partner to reciprocate these understandings. 
• Can make any person laugh, if the person is drunk or a toddler.
• Type avg 55 wpm
• Microsoft Word/Excel/Powerpoint/Outlook

Experience

Blind Date/Dinner Date/Female-Companion-No-Labels 2009-Present

• Important takeaways: 
• Dating is a necessary evil

Girlfriend 2007-2009

• Important takeaways: 
• Long distance is not always a viable option, long distance college relationships are never a viable option
• Philly Cheese Steaks make for a hostile kissing environment

Girlfriend 2007-2007 (A little under a month)

• Important takeaways:
• Gamers are great to vent to, because they're too busy playing World Of Warcraft to listen to your stupid girl problems

Girlfriend 2007-2007 (A little over a month)

• Important takeaways:
• Beards are hot
• Teenagers do not make satisfactory romantic partners; dating before age 18 is futile

References available upon request - none of which are ex-boyfriends because they all hate me now. 

----------------------

Form I-420 - Romantic Partnership Offer Election Document 

After carefully reviewing the offering party's cover letter and resume, desired party is required by law to elect an official stance on the future of offered romantic partnership.

The written decision on this document is binding, both parties must adhere to the desired party's choice. Ballot can only be reopened for discussion if both parties are sober and there is a third party present to mediate. 

Neither party is liable for the emotional reactions of the other party, once a decision has been made.

The desired party must return written decision to offering party by end of receiving day, otherwise desired party will forever be considered an asshole, and offering party will never be able to trust anyone ever again and will probably become a drug addict or stripper or both. 

Date Received: ___________

As per tradition, check box of elected decision:

Desired Party Signature: _____________________  Date: _________

Offering Party Signature:  ____________________ Date: _________

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Would anyone judge me or be surprised at all if I said I spent more energy making this than I did on my actual resume?